


Acephobia

by shnuffeluv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acephobia, Asexual Character, Dark, Drugs, Gen, Heavy Angst, Helpful Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mycroft-centric, corrective rape, later on at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/shnuffeluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft...is asexual. And that is not received well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not intend to offend anyone, this is literally me venting my fears about being ace through fictional characters. It is dark, and only 4 chapters long so far. If you want to see more, please let me know. Once again, I am no expert, I only have the Internet for research, and I hope I do not offend anyone with my portrayal of this.

Mycroft sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office uncomfortably. Children were sobbing from getting vaccines, an old couple sat in the corner talking to each other, and the secretary kept looking over at him, clearly surprised by his last name. John walked out of the back and looked at his list. “Okay, who’s next…” he looked up, looked down at his list, and back up. He blinked before stuttering to life. “O-Oh. Hi, Mycroft. It’s your turn.”

John led him back and Mycroft tried to keep the trembling in his hands to a minimum until the door was closed behind them. Mycroft sat down on the examination table and John took a seat by the computer. “What can I do for you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft took a breath. “I…” he swallowed. “I just didn’t know...who else I could trust.”

John put down his clipboard. “Mycroft? Is everything okay?”

Mycroft slowly shook his head. “N-no. Everything's not...okay. I...assume, that Sherlock told you I was asexual?”

John leaned back. “You know, he did mention it one time, to try and get a rise out of you. Thought you were listening through a bug or something.”

Mycroft smiled and scratched his eyebrow. “I’m not surprised. That sounds like him.” His voice was incredibly strained.

“What does that have to do with why you’re here? Being asexual is not a medical condition, last I checked…”

“Yes, well…” the lights were too bright and everything seemed to be crashing around him and he couldn’t breathe… “All in good time, this isn’t easy for me to say.”

John leaned forward. “Mycroft. Are you hurt?”

_ Yes.  _ “I-I should just go…” he weakly muttered.

John frowned, trying to place where he had seen this sort of reaction before. “Mycroft, don’t go. Just...explain.”

“W-well...a common problem for asexuals is acephobia, hateful words or concepts that devalue our identity. One of the more common ones is the idea that we need to be fixed…” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have come.”

John’s eyes widened. “Mycroft, were you…?”

Mycroft nodded with his eyes tightly shut. “I...need to know if I got...anything from them. I wish I knew who they were.”

John nodded. “I’ll need a blood test. And we’ll have to contact the police, of course.”

Mycroft blanched. “D-do we have to…? What if they agree with...with...it’s not unheard of. And I’m a guy. It’s really hard for someone to believe…”

John shook his head. “I’m required to report it. I’ll see if Lestrade will take it, yeah? If both of us tell him, he’s more likely to believe us than another officer.”

Mycroft shook. “L-look, I really just need to know if I got any STDs.”

“I’m not letting you let this slide, Mycroft! This is too important! Now the only choice you have is whether or not you’re going to be an anonymous case!”

The secretary came in. “Everything all right, boys?” she asked softly.

John scowled. “No. Call the police. We have a sex offender that needs to be caught.”

The secretary’s eyes widened comically. “Yes, Doctor Watson. Any officer in particular you want over here?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, as quickly as possible. If he’s out, then Dimmock. He usually listens to me,” John ordered.

The woman nodded and left quickly. John ran a hand over his face. “You’ll need the clothes you wore when it happened, of course.”

Mycroft looked down at the ground. “I’m wearing them. This morning, when I woke up and realized I was in a stranger’s place...I came straight here. I...couldn’t...look, just take my blood, all right?! I’ll leave and we can pretend this never happened.”

“Roll up your sleeve,” John said, ignoring Mycroft’s outburst.

Mycroft huffed and rolled up his sleeve, and John took the blood. “For blood-borne diseases only,” John said regretfully. “You’ll have to strip in order for me to know more.”

The tests and gathering samples took far too long in Mycroft’s opinion, and John wasn’t much better off by the time Mycroft had been able to pull his pants back on. As soon as Mycroft was dressed again, there was a knock on the door. John opened it and Lestrade walked in. “So, what’s the matter now, John? The secretary wouldn’t say on the phone...Mycroft?”

John looked at Mycroft and said, “Are you going to tell him, or am I?”

Mycroft glared at John, took a deep breath, released it, and whispered. “I was raped last night.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade was surprisingly understanding, though he did require Mycroft to hand over his clothes as evidence. John had a change of clothes he could use to go down to the station to describe what he could remember of the rapist. John gave his statement and then Lestrade led Mycroft out. He saw the old couple muttering and the secretary smiled at him sympathetically. “You can ride shotgun, if you want. It’s better than the back,” Lestrade offered when they were outside.

Mycroft nodded numbly.

“You okay?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I was raped, what do you think?!” he snapped.

Lestrade held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Fair enough. Get in.”

Mycroft ducked under and slid in the car, buckling himself in for once. Lestrade got in the other side and smiled at the man. “Don’t worry. I’ll get my best men on the case.”

Mycroft growled. “Fat lot of good that’s going to be.”

Lestrade looked over, slightly annoyed. “They do a good job. And if you’re so unsure, we can always drag your brother into this.”

Mycroft growled and shook his head firmly. “No.”

Lestrade nodded. “Right, then. Leave it to my men. We’ll take you down for a sketch, and then run it through the criminal database. See if we can get a match.”

Mycroft leaned back and sighed. “I don’t remember much of anything last night. I was disassociating pretty badly. I remember yelling ‘I’m here, I’m queer, and you can never change that!’”

Lestrade chuckled at that. “Proud of your sexuality?”

“Lack thereof, technically,” Mycroft whispered. “I’m asexual.”

Lestrade nearly swerved off the road to look at Mycroft. “Well no wonder you’re so shaken up! Someone violating you and denying such a huge part of yourself, anyone would be behaving like you are right now!”

Mycroft closed his eyes and rested his head against his headrest. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, couldn’t you just let me rest?”

“Until we get to the station, yeah. Sure.”

Mycroft nodded off to the thrum of the engine, but didn’t sleep well. He woke up to Lestrade shaking his shoulder lightly. “Hey. Mycroft, wake up. We’re here.”

“Unh,” he groaned. “What? I just fell asleep.”

Lestrade gave him a funny look. “You were out cold for 20 minutes, mate.”

Mycroft got out of the car slowly, rubbing a palm on his forehead. “My head’s pounding.”

“Oh…” Lestrade let out a puff of air. “Were you drugged last night, Mycroft?”

“Probably. I was tied up and I couldn’t get my fingers to work right,” he sighed. “Withdrawal?”

“Withdrawal.”

“Fan-bleeding-tastic. I can’t even act like nothing happened without painkillers.”

“It’s better for us if you don’t act like that at all,” Lestrade pointed out. “You’re the only one who can tell us who did this.”

“I don’t even remember much of anything,” Mycroft said. “I know I keep repeating myself, but I can’t even  _ remember _ .”

Lestrade put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and the man flinched away. “Don’t give me pity. I hate pity.”

“All right. Let’s go upstairs, yeah? Get what you can remember down.”

Mycroft nodded. “F-fine. Let’s get this over with.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade guided Mycroft to a sketch artist and gently pressed on his shoulders to sit down. Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to protest that he could handle himself. “Ms. Dent, this is Mr. Holmes. We need to find a sexual offender, ASAP. Could you help us?”

The artist gave a serious nod. “Of course, Inspector. I just got some new software I’ve been meaning to try.” She booted up the computer and nodded at Mycroft. “Well, then, Mr. Holmes. Let’s try to find your perpetrator. Can you remember if they were a man, or a woman?”

“A-a...a woman. I-I remember that much.”

Dent nodded and put that in. “Eye color? Hair color?”

Mycroft hesitated. What  _ was _ her hair color?

An image flashed before his eyes.  _ He was tied up, and blonde hair was tickling his chest. There was a flash of something blue for a second. “I’ll make sure you can never say you’re asexual again,” a feral smile crossed her face. “I’ll fix you, Mycroft.” _

“Blonde hair. Sort of medium-shoulder length, I think. And...there was something blue. I don’t know if it was her eyes or a piercing. I-I-I really don’t know.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Holmes,” the woman assured. “During these sorts of things it’s extremely hard to remember little details. S’don’t worry and just do what you can.”

Mycroft nodded and swallowed thickly. “H-her voice...was...s-smooth…and cool, kinda like how milk looks and feels through a glass. Her smile wasn’t…” he swallowed. “It wasn’t human. It looked like an animals. Perfect teeth, too. Probably American, because of that,” he muttered. “Sh-sh-she...bit...me...several times. I never want to go through that again…” he shuddered, and looked down. “Um...her ears were big. Kinda sticky-outy. And like a right triangle. Attached lobes. Pointy nose. Small, but really pointy.” He thought about it, and finally said, “That’s all I have.”

“You helped immensely, Mycroft,” the sketch artist encouraged. “Is there anything else you can think of?”

Mycroft sat back and closed his eyes, trying to come up with something, anything else. Nothing was forthcoming. “That’s all I have,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You did fine, mate. Better than most people would,” Lestrade assured. “Let’s get a statement from you, and you can crash. You look really peaky.”

Mycroft followed Lestrade into his office and sank into one of the chairs. Lestrade sat next to him as opposed to across from him. “All right. Anything you can give me. Time, location? Physical description, any names, anything you can remember.”

In short order Mycroft listed what he knew, which didn’t seem like much to him, but Lestrade was encouraging him for. When he was done and could think of nothing more, exhaustion started to take him, and Lestrade grabbed a blanket, pulling it over the man. “Rest some, you’ve earned it,” he said quietly. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

Mycroft doubted that, but appreciated the sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time. Let me know if you guys want more!


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft woke up to someone shoving his shoulder, hard. “Mycroft! What are you doing in Lestrade’s office?! Get out! He had promised me a case!”

“Unh…” Mycroft groaned, sitting up and yawning. “Give me a break. I was up almost all night, and the night before that. Despite popular belief, I am not actually a robot that can run 24-7.”

Sherlock scoffed and got Mycroft out of the chair, dropping the blanket to the floor as he paused. “Why are you wearing John’s spare sweatsuit?”

Mycroft cringed when he realized he indeed had passed out in NSY under a blanket in John’s clothes. “Long story, Sherlock,” he grumbled. “I’ll be going.”

“Hang on, Mycroft. I think you should tell him. See if he’ll take the case. It’s certainly more interesting than the one I have,” Lestrade coaxed.

Sherlock scrutinized Mycroft. “What case? What case would cause...this?”

Mycroft bristled. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Already in capable hands, I can assure you.”

“But it’s high-profile, and Sherlock, for all his flaws, is good at discretion. Better than most, even.”

Mycroft glared at Lestrade. Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down. “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Mycroft snapped. “And if anything did happen,  _ I _ can handle it!”

Sherlock frowned. “Myc, what happened?”

“Nothing happened, all right?!” he yelled, causing some officers to turn their heads.

“Mycroft was, uh, a witness to a crime last night. Pretty nasty one, and it’s weighing on his mind. And, uh, well, his body. He was drugged up forcefully during most, if not all, of it. So he’s a little touchy at the moment,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock scrutinized both men for a long minute after hearing that information, and came up empty. “What does that mean?”

But Mycroft was already walking out and making his way out of the office, shoulders hunched, arms crossed, and eyes trained on the floor as he walked to the elevator. Sherlock came up from behind him, still shorter than Mycroft, but not by much when he was like this. “Something happened last night, to you. What was it?”

“Leave. Me. Alone,” Mycroft growled. The elevator door opened and Mycroft got in, trying to close it before Sherlock could follow, but the detective held the door open. Mycroft looked up in annoyance. “I mean it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked him over one more time, factoring in John’s clothes, where he found him…“You went to John’s clinic for some reason this morning, something required discretion, then. Your hands are shaking, you’re in withdrawal, most likely from the drugs Lestrade said you took. You were sleeping in a chair in his office, meaning you passed out there, as you would never fall asleep there willingly. You were filling out a crime report, obviously. Something happened to you, last night, that would cause you to go to a doctor, but it wasn’t an immediate issue...oh.  _ Oh _ .” Sherlock looked around, not able to meet his brother’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, correctional rape tends to be a crime nowadays. And not very effective, as it turns out,” Mycroft scoffed. “Will you let me get clothes that fit now?”

“I’m coming with you,” Sherlock declared.

Mycroft heaved a world-weary sigh. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to find whoever did this to you, and make sure she regrets the day she ever set eyes on you.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft shook his head and ran a hand over his face, realizing resistance was futile. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is everything I had up to this point. You can see more if you want, but know updates would be highly sporadic after this. Or, you can say that this was enough for now, and you can imagine yourself that Sherlock and Mycroft catch the baddy working together. Whatever, I'll try to continue writing whichever way you guys want, and if I finish this, I'll wind up updating it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft went to his house via cab, Sherlock never leaving his side, much to Mycroft’s frustration. When Mycroft got to his room, he stopped Sherlock at the door. “I’m going to be changing, I don’t need you to watch.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but sullenly nodded. Mycroft walked in alone and stripped down, grabbing the first thing he saw in way of clothes and was fine putting everything on, until he got to the shirt buttons. His fingers kept trembling, and a plethora of swear words in different languages popped into his head. He got almost all the buttons done when he realized that the buttonholes weren’t lined up, and he let a few swear words escape through his mouth. There was a knock at the door and Sherlock poked his head in. “Myc, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft said shortly, and fumbled to undo the buttons.

Sherlock came over quickly, grabbing Mycroft’s hands and pulling them away from his shirt. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll do it today. It’s just your body detoxing. You’ll be able to stop shaking within a few days, if you’re lucky.”

Mycroft growled but allowed Sherlock to do the buttons. He tucked in his shirt on his own, glaring at Sherlock when he brought up the fact that he didn’t have to if he really didn’t want to. “I’m fine. Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass!”

Sherlock held his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t trying to. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Whatever. You can get my statement from the police department, if you really need it, I need to get to work.”

Sherlock frowned. “Are you sure that’s the best idea, Myc?”

“It needs to be done, and stop using that infernal nickname!”

“Mycroft...do you really think that the place you’re needed most right now is work? You can call in sick, come over to my place, and we can play Operation. Let you decompress and refocus before you try to do anything you’re…” Sherlock trailed off, realizing how that sounded.

“I’m what? Not prepared for? Not ‘emotionally strong’ enough to handle? Screw you, Sherlock, I was fine. You’re the reason I thought Doctor Watson could be trusted to just test me with no strings attached. But no, he  _ has _ to call the police!” Mycroft was yelling and he didn’t even care. “Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I wanted this all to just disappear? For this to never have happened?! The police quietly catch the rapist and I testify in a small court case, no one outside the jury and judge seeing anything?! Because that’s all I could have hoped for in this, once it became apparent John wasn’t going to let me leave! And I can’t even have  _ that _ now, no, because  _ you’re _ on the case! And you can  _ never _ do anything quietly!” Mycroft exhaled shakily, and focus on the ring on his hand, trying to hold still enough to focus on it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do  _ anything _ right. He couldn’t keep his own rape quiet, and Sherlock probably hated him now, too, not that Mycroft blamed him. To his horror, he felt his face getting hot and his eyes stinging.

He turned and quickly made his way to the ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind him, but not locking it, because he wasn’t sure he trusted himself. He poured cool water from the tap into his hands and splashed it over his face, inspecting himself in the mirror. He couldn’t go to work like this; he looked like an absolute mess! Pale, shaky, and miserable was  _ not _ the image he wanted to be remembered by. He swore again and banged his fist down on the sink, figuring the mirror would have too many shards.

Alone, in his own bathroom, seeing himself for the first time after everything, it broke some dam inside of him and his breath hitched as hot saltwater traversed his face. There was a light knock at the door and before Mycroft could find his voice to say he was fine, Sherlock was in the room, looking him over. “No work today, all right? I’ll even play Cluedo the proper way if it’ll help.”

Mycroft shook his head, but said, “F-Fine. Not one word about this.”

Sherlock nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not claim to be an expert on detoxing, I just know what I've read.


	6. Chapter 6

In the middle of Mycroft and Sherlock's 15th round of Operation, after 6 games of Chess and 2 disastrous attempts at Cluedo, John Watson returned from the clinic to Baker Street. “Sherlock! Sherlock, I’m--” he froze in the doorway. “Home. Ah. Is the kettle still warm?”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said, picking a rubber band out of the unfortunate patient. “Your move!” he chirped.

Mycroft took the tweezers and went for the brain freeze piece, but his hands were shaking too violently to even get the tweezers in. As per usual today, Sherlock didn’t gloat, but held his hand open for the tweezers, silently asserting his turn. “Just give me another try, I’m sure I can do it,” Mycroft muttered, reluctantly handing the tweezers over.

Sherlock snagged the brain freeze and looked at what was left. Only the broken heart, which Mycroft didn’t deal with well on good days. “I think it’s safe to say I win,” he said, preparing to put everything away.

“No, if I can get the broken heart, I can win this!” Mycroft insisted. “Keep it on the table. I’m about to beat you.”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, removing his hands from the edges of the game. Mycroft carefully took the tweezers in hand and managed to keep a steady hand long enough to pick up the plastic piece when…

_ BZZT! _

Mycroft dropped the tweezers on reflex and closed his eyes. Why did that startle him so much? What was it about the buzzing-- _ Fluorescent lighting. A light bulb was about to blink out in the kitchen above them, and no one was around. Mycroft turned to the woman in front of him. Blonde, a blue pendant hanging from her neck...it was  _ her _. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here, you know?” Mycroft asked. “Can we get back out to the party? I hate that, but at least we won’t get in trouble for being there.” _

_ “Oh, come on,” the woman breathed. “You  _ have _ to get out a bit more, Mycroft. No one will miss us for 30 seconds…” she pulled him down roughly into a kiss, and he shoved her away, wiping his mouth. The woman looked insulted, of all things. “What, am I that bad a kisser?” _

Mycroft came around to Sherlock snapping his fingers in Mycroft’s face. He breathed a sigh of relief. “There you are. You’ve been out of it for 5 minutes. John was getting ready to call an ambulance.”

“I need my schedule from last night,” Mycroft said. “I was somewhere...somewhere important. An event of some sort. And the woman was there. She was...a guest, or someone’s plus one. Where was I?”

Sherlock patted his knee. “You should rest, you know. Don’t force any memories to come to you, all right? Just take it easy.”

Mycroft frowned. “But...I knew her. You have to understand! I knew her!” he ran a hand through his hair and lept to his feet. “You of all people should understand what this gap feels like! You’ve blocked memories too! How do you get them back?!”

Sherlock shook his head and looked over to where John was watching from the kitchen. “Look, Myc...John can give you a sedative, help you to rest, and we can talk more about this in a few hours when you’ve calmed down.”

“No sedatives!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I’m fine!”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course you’re fine. You’re coming up roses. But even you need to rest--” he lunged at Mycroft and pinned his arms to his sides as John walked over and injected the sedative in the man’s neck.

Mycroft gasped and felt his muscles relax against his will and felt himself slump into Sherlock’s arms. “No one’s gonna hurt you, Myc, we just need you to calm down. I’m going to put you on the couch and pull a blanket over you, but nothing else. All right? I need you to show you understand.”

His tongue felt like lead and his arms and legs weren’t responding right and it was just like the night before and  _ make it stop make it stop make it stop it’s too much don’t hurt me I won’t tell anyone just let me go… _

Sherlock and John turned green and red, respectively. It appeared Mycroft was mumbling out loud. The men guided him to the couch and pulled a blanket over his shoulders, as promised, and Sherlock carefully took off his shoes. Mycroft drifted into unpleasant oblivion quickly.


	7. Chapter 7

_ “Come on, Mycroft! No one can  _ really _ be asexual! Just enjoy this!” _

_ Mycroft’s tongue was lead and he couldn’t speak. He was strapped to a bed, but he refused to assess the situation further, refused to focus on the woman above him. Refused to focus on the fact that she was...refusing to focus on that. This couldn’t be real...it wasn’t real! It couldn’t be! He wasn’t...couldn’t...there was no way he was back here. _

The man woke up with a gasp for the second time in a day somewhere he didn’t immediately recognize.  _ No. Not again, it can’t have happened again… _ “Myc?”

Sherlock. He turned to see his younger brother staring at him. “It’s 2 hours to midnight. Are you okay? You were mumbling in your sleep about something not being real?”

“Nightmare. It was nothing,” Mycroft brushed off. His hands shook from fear rather than withdrawal now and he shoved them in his pockets to hide that fact, not like Sherlock didn’t notice already.

“I was going to make some tea. Want any?”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “Do you have chamomile?”

“Probably. I don’t keep track, though. We always have what I like, and John buys anything he thinks we might need other than that.”

“Like actual food?” Mycroft scoffed, getting up and checking the cupboards in the kitchen for any kind of tea besides highly caffeinated ones Sherlock preferred. There was equipment, biscuits, instant noodles…“Here we are,” he murmured, pulling out a box of chamomile.

Sherlock turned the kettle on after filling it with water and got out a box of the caffeinated tea. “I’ll be working with Anthea on where you were last night in maybe half an hour. You can use my room tonight if you want.”

“You told Anthea?” Mycroft asked, trying to sound conversational about it.

“Just that you woke up this morning somewhere you didn’t recognize, and that you were probably black-out drunk last night.”

Mycroft nodded. They lapsed into silence until Mycroft said, “I’m sex-repulsed, you know. And not just...because of what happened. I was before.”

“I didn’t. That must have made everything worse,” Sherlock said idly.

The kettle whistled and Sherlock poured the water into two mugs, into which the brothers steeped their respective teas. Sherlock glanced over at Mycroft and frowned when he noticed the absence of his ring on his right hand. “Where’s your ring?”

“Jacket pocket,” Mycroft sighed. “It wasn’t...wasn’t a ring for a gay marriage like you had suggested when I had first worn it. It was...it was my purity ring. From when I did a year of studying abroad in America.”

Sherlock stared into his tea. “Oh.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I was proud of it. I had just but a name to the term ‘asexual’ and thought, even though celibacy wasn’t exactly what I was doing, people would know about it and understand I wasn’t interested in...sex. I guess it was useless, wasn’t it? 20 years of abstinence under that promise, ripped away from me in one night because someone was offended that I dared be anything except heterosexual.”

Sherlock nodded and continued to stare into his tea. “That’s not how it really is, I don’t think, and even though you want to argue against that statement I understand your sentiment while reserving my own opinion. If you want to get religious...I’m sure that God would understand your being raped was not your fault. And I think He wouldn’t mind you continuing to wear the ring.”

Mycroft didn’t respond, just sipped at his tea and offered a small shrug. “What am I going to tell Mummy? You know neither of us can hide anything from her, she knows all our tells.”

Sherlock actually snorted. Mycroft snapped his eyes up to his brother and when he saw the grown man stifling giggles he couldn’t help cracking a smile. “Yes, I suppose that was a bit of a stupid question.”

The two men chuckled only somewhat uncomfortably in the kitchen for a few minutes, before Mycroft went back to the couch with his mug and Sherlock opened his laptop to have a video chat with Anthea about the situation. In light of this new information, Sherlock couldn’t  _ not _ help find his brother’s rapist.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft was drifting in and out of consciousness on the couch as Sherlock talked with Anthea well into the night. He knew that several times she had asked about his condition, and Sherlock deflected every time, not wanting to do anything that could reveal beyond what Mycroft was comfortable revealing. Which only aggravated Anthea further.

After about the 10th time of her asking, he groaned, stood up, and walked over, leaning over the back of Sherlock’s chair, calmly saying, “Some blonde American raped me last night and we’re trying to find her. So if you would be so kind as to help I would really appreciate it.”

Anthea had gaped, cleared her throat, and croaked out an affirmative before going back to talking about members of the party. Mycroft returned to the couch, still trying to process the information he had been forced to endure for an uncertain amount of time by some unknown woman in an unknown place. He knew it was a motel of sorts. Had he written down the address at some point? It seemed like something he would do. He sighed and shrugged the question off. If he had the police had his clothing, and hopefully they would find it. He curled up on himself and sighed into the cushions. He needed rest, he  _ knew _ that, but he didn’t want to face his nightmares.

A hand landed on his back and he jumped on instinct, before realizing it was Sherlock, and he was saying something. An apology, if Mycroft had to hazard a guess. “What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m sorry that I startled you. Between the police report, the guest list, and several hours of brainstorming, we’ve found the locations where everything happened, from the party to the motel the woman was staying at. You had picked up a business card before you left the place, do you remember?”

Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock shrugged. “Not really important now. What matters is we have something to work off of starting tomorrow. You should sleep.”

“I don’t want to face her again, even if it’s in a dream,” Mycroft yawned.

“Yes, but you will most likely be seeing her face again very soon, when we arrest her. You’ll have to verify she’s actually the woman who hurt you.”

Mycroft flinched. “I don’t want to. You of all people should understand. I...I’d be pulled back into that night and...and I’d never come back out.”

Sherlock sat on the floor next to the couch and sighed. “I know, with the way you associate, it will be hard, but I’m confident that you’d be all right. You always come out on top. Right?”

Mycroft laughed and yawned again. “I’m not the superhero you think I am, Sherlock. I’m just another man. Like you, or like Lestrade, or like anyone else. I just happen to be able to observe and remember. I’m nothing special.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “You are to me.”

“I’m honored, Sherlock, but really. Heroes don’t exist, and even if they did-”

“-You wouldn’t be one of them, I know,” Sherlock supplied. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not important. Just...rest, and tomorrow we’ll go over the guest list together. Sound good?”

Mycroft blearily nodded and he closed his eyes. Everything in his body felt like lead, much as he tried to wake up, he couldn’t. His head started to shut down and he could just barely make out Sherlock rubbing his back gently, murmuring for him to sleep. Much as he hated it, it sounded like a good idea.

He took a deep breath and sighed, letting his mind shut down.

Sherlock kept rubbing his back, long after he was asleep, keeping the nightmares away for just a little while.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft woke up slowly on Sherlock’s couch, a crick in his neck. He sat up and rolled his head until he could feel and hear a  _ click _ of something falling into place. He looked around, but couldn’t find anyone in the immediate vicinity. “Sherlock?” he asked into the open space.

“Kitchen. Experiment,” the familiar baritone said.

Mycroft got up and walked in. “That’s...those are my pants?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ve retrieved DNA samples, and I’m running my own test for STDs. I don’t trust those kits at the doctors’ offices. Even if it’s John’s.”

Mycroft nodded stiffly as memories of the night before last tried to bombard him. “Have fun with that.”

Sherlock looked at him with concern. “Myc, are you all right?”

Mycroft ground his teeth. “I’m  _ sick _ and  _ tired _ of everyone  _ asking me that! Why can’t everyone just shut up and realize that no, I am NOT OKAY?! _ ”

Sherlock held his hands up in surrender. “Okay! Okay! All I meant by that question was if you needed anything!”

“For these 2 days to not be real,” Mycroft said, his voice thick. “I can’t...I can’t! I can’t do this, Sherlock.”

“What are you saying, Myc,” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shook his head and began dissociating. He was dimly aware of someone crying, but it didn’t feel like him at all. “Nothing. I’m not saying anything at all,” he spoke, his words hollow.

Sherlock strode to Mycroft and led him to the couch. “You should sleep some more,” he said.

Mycroft laughed. “I’ve slept more than enough. I’m basically just a consciousness anyway--what’s the point?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft, how do I help you like this? I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what you need?”

“I need all this to end,” Mycroft said darkly. “Just finish it.”

“We have the perpetrator within our grasp, Myc, we’re so  _ close _ \--”

“Not  _ that _ to end, you idiot,” Mycroft sighed. “ _ Everything _ . I want the world to  _ burn _ .”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Myc. Please. Just sleep?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s no use, it wouldn’t help.”

“Myc--”

“Just  _ shut up! _ ” Mycroft exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded and stood. “Suit yourself. I’ll go back to my experiments now. Don’t ask me anything and I won’t answer.”

Mycroft watched him go and curled up on the couch, still feeling numb to the world. As he was about to go to sleep, his mind sent him a fresh batch of flashbacks, and he screwed his eyes shut as if that would help anything. But it was like he was back in the motel room, which he could have sworn he heard the woman claim was her house, and could hear the ambient sounds of cars in the parking lot, and he was reliving it, no no no no no he thought it was over why did it _never stop_ why couldn’t he just be _left alone he was asexual surely that meant that this woman shouldn’t bother with him?!_ _“T-T-Tiffany,” he breathed. “Ms. Gallis, why are you doing this?! This isn’t right!”_

_ “I’m helping you, Mycroft, you have to understand that,” she said with a predatory smile. “You’ll thank me in the morning.” _

Mycroft gasped and bolted upright, shaking his head free of the memory. Despite Sherlock saying he was going back to his experiments, the flat was silent. “I have a name,” Mycroft said weakly to the kitchen.

A blow torch firing was the only response he got.


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade was coming up the stairs to 221B at a surprisingly quick pace. Mycroft figured that Sherlock must have texted him when he was done with his experiments. Mycroft looked up at the DI and shrugged. “Sherlock’s gone out.”

“Out?” the man asked, like the thought didn’t compute.

“Out,” Mycroft repeated. “I have no idea where, and I don’t care to know. I’m a bit busy trying not to tear myself apart.”

“And by that you mean…?”

“Trying not to do any self-destructive behavior. I know where Sherlock keeps his drug stash and that he currently has 2 packs of cigarettes hidden in it.” Mycroft shrugged. “I’m generally trying to be apathetic to everything.”

“That’s not a healthy way to cope, believe me, I’ve tried it,” Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock said he knew the identity of your rapist, and that he was going to show me her?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, no. That means he’s after her as we speak.” He stood up, swayed a little, and walked over to Sherlock’s computer, typing in the password. “Tiffany Gallis. 28, employed at the American Embassy as a Public Relations ‘expert’. And I use the term expert loosely. Raging acephobe, claims to be welcoming to everyone, regardless of gender, occupation, or orientation. Upper middle class living, raised in a lower middle class family, thinks there’s something irresistible about her. She’s not wrong. I can’t resist the urge to break her jaw.” Lestrade laughed and Mycroft threw him a smirk. “Like that one? I’ve been waiting to use it on whoever came onto me and wouldn’t give it a rest.” He shook his head. “Shame it had to be under these circumstances, however.”

Lestrade sobered and scratched the back of his head. “So when you say Sherlock is after this Tiffany woman...what do you think he’ll do when he catches her?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I hope he doesn’t kill her. I’d love to give her a piece of my mind first.”

“Mm. Any chance of us catching up with Sherlock?”

Mycroft and Lestrade’s phones both chimed a text alert. Mycroft checked his phone and arched his eyebrows. “He just sent us her location.”

Lestrade grinned. “Fantastic. I’ll call for back up on the way over there, you read the directions and I’ll drive.”

“Let’s go,” Mycroft said.

The two men rushed out of the flat and into the cop car waiting below. “Where are we going?” Lestrade asked.

“The American embassy. Apparently Ms. Gallis is stupid enough to think that she won’t be charged with assault, drug possession, and rape at the least,” Mycroft said. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Americans are such idiots.”

“Yeah? Me too,” Lestrade said, pulling into traffic and turning on his siren and lights. “It means we get to catch this woman and give you some closure. Not a lot, but she won’t be able to hurt you again.”

“That’s all I’ll ask for in front of you. Maybe later I’ll ask for some other things in my job-appointed therapy.”

“You have to go to therapy for your job?” Lestrade laughed.

“Standard procedure after abductions to make sure no psychological damage was done,” Mycroft shrugged. “I didn’t make it home safely, I had to escape the motel room before anyone else woke up. What would make it more an abduction than that?”

“Fair point.”


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade pulled up to the embassy and both he and Mycroft got out of the car and walked up to the door, where Sherlock was arguing with a guard. Lestrade held out his police badge. “Scotland Yard, we have some questions for a Ms. Tiffany Gallis, regarding a abduction and rape 2 nights ago after a social event.”

“Fine,” the guard snapped. “But when she tells you to get out, you get out. She’s head of security and has a meeting in an hour.”

Lestrade didn’t say that she wouldn’t make the meeting, instead keeping quiet and nodding his thanks. Mycroft and Sherlock flanked him as he asked for the woman’s office, and was given directions. When the three men burst into the room, she jumped about a foot. “Ma’am, we’re with Scotland Yard. We have a few questions about a rape and abduction 2 nights ago, that you might be a suspect in?”

“Don’t bother asking them,” Mycroft said, nodding. “That’s her.”

The woman had the audacity to laugh. “Right, nice prank Mycroft, we both know you enjoyed our little ‘chat’ in the motel.”

“Do we?” Mycroft asked. “I was rather under the impression that I am sex-repulsed.”

Lestrade walked up to her and pulled out his handcuffs. “Hands behind your back.”

Tiffany complied but kept her eyes on Mycroft. “Be honest, though. Did you like it? Did I fix you?”

Mycroft looked at her, not saying anything for 10 seconds. The two men in the room turned to him with suspicion when he smiled. “I’m here, I’m queer, and you weren’t able to change that.”

Tiffany hung her head in defeat as Lestrade read her rights. Sherlock looked at Mycroft with pride in his eyes. Mycroft stood there and watched as Lestrade lead her out of the room, and followed them out to the waiting police cars outside. The police officers who had just pulled up started clapping and cheering. “I take it finding a rapist is a big deal at the office?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade chuckled. “Yes, yes it is. Tell you what, though, mate. Tiffany Gallis is never going to be able to hurt you, or anyone else, again.”

Mycroft nodded, and then did what no one else expected to see from him: he gave a genuine smile and  _ laughed _ . “You have no idea what that means,” he said.

Lestrade shook his head. “I don’t. But I know it helps. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock strode up to stand beside him. “We wouldn’t have found her without you,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks, Sherlock, but I think I’ll still leave the crime-solving to you. I much prefer having complaints about human relations to deal with over bodily harm and bullets flying past.”

Sherlock nodded. “Just as well. You’d make a lousy detective. You’re far too lazy.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Oh, yes. Because you never see me run I can’t possibly experience physical exertion, since you’re the center of the universe and what you say goes.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock said gleefully.

“Want to come with me to Pride sometime?” Mycroft offered. “The people from AVEN often speculate about your sexuality, and they would only believe...whatever your orientation is if it came straight from your mouth.”

Sherlock chuckled. “This coming from the man who said that I wouldn’t know about sex if it hit me in the face?”

“I...may or may not have projected as a teenager,” Mycroft said with a small hint of sheepishness. “Nevertheless, I’m sure they’d enjoy meeting the man who helped arrest an acephobe purely for expressing their acephobia.”

“The woman raped you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smirked. “Like I said.”

Sherlock thought about it, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have plans for at least one more chapter. Would you all like that to be the epilogue or should I continue to the court case?


	12. Prologue

Mycroft stepped out of his house, eyeing Sherlock who was leaning against a cab. Sherlock just smirked at him. “Not bad,” he said.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft walked closer. He was wearing a shirt that said, “Let’s get one thing straight, I’m not” with the asexual pride flag on it, and an old pair of jeans Mycroft barely wore. “It’s Pride, Sherlock. Not the place to be wearing layers upon layers of clothes. Not unless you want to die of heat exhaustion.”

Sherlock sighed and opened the door to the cab. “Hop in,” he said casually. “You sure I’m allowed in?”

“They let in allies, yes,” Mycroft said, getting in the cab and giving the cabbie the address as Sherlock sat next to him. Mycroft almost flinched away.

Almost.

When they got to the Pride, Mycroft confidently walked to the entrance and waited for Sherlock to join him. When the man walked over, Mycroft grabbed his hand and pulled him into the street, his eyes flickering over every stall until he found what he was looking for, a table with a flag of black, grey, white, and purple flying over it. The people at the table recognized Mycroft, and immediately called him over. Mycroft stood across the table from the group and introduced Sherlock. “Everyone, this is Sherlock, my brother. He’s the one who caught the rapist you’ve been reading about in the papers.”

“The acephobe who thought they could ‘fix’ you?” one guy asked.

“The very same,” Mycroft said. “The court case is in 2 weeks. Then this whole ordeal will be over.”

A person of questionable gender whooped. “That’s great news! I’m sorry it had to happen, but at least it’s almost over!”

Mycroft grew quiet, but nodded. Sherlock looked over every single one of them. “You’re all...asexual?”

“We’re on the ace-spectrum, but not all of us are asexual, per say,” the first guy said. “I’m demi, Logan here is ace, we have another demisexual around here somewhere, and some of us are even grey-asexual. We have different thoughts about doing the do, as well.”

Mycroft, to Sherlock’s surprise chuckled. “Still can’t find the right euphemism, have you, Jack?”

Jack frowned. “Shut up,  _ Myc _ .”

Sherlock whirled to look at Mycroft, but his brother only grimaced. “We’ve talked about this!” he hissed.

Jack shrugged. “Ah, well. Just goes to show people will treat you how you treat them!”

Mycroft shook his head. “Fine.  _ Jackson _ . Care to show Sherlock around?”

Jack smiled. “Sure! That’s one thing I can definitely do!” He stepped out from behind the table. “Oh, and Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded to show he was listening.

“I’m glad that you’re healing.”

Mycroft nodded. “Me too.”

_ ~End~ _


End file.
